


Life Goes On

by A_disturbedtable



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drugs, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sad, Sexual Harassment, Smoking, Substance Abuse, dreamnotfound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_disturbedtable/pseuds/A_disturbedtable
Summary: George is used to the non-stop feeling of being intoxicated or high to act as an escape from his problems, then he reaches his breaking point.TW- Drugs, Substance Abuse, Mental Issues''Some days you will feel sad without knowing why. Like you lost something very precious but forgot what it was, or you miss someone you never met.''
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Life As It Is

**Author's Note:**

> The Pinterest mood board for the characters:  
> George: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/A_disturbedtable/george-wat/  
> Dream: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/A_disturbedtable/dream/

(A/N - This chapter is basically just like an explanation/example of what his life is currently like atm the next chapters will then get into the story but this is just an example of what his like was like before the story takes place.)

Trigger Warning- Mentions of Drugs, Substance Abuse, Mental health problems, Talk of bad Childhood/upbringing, mentions of suicide

''Some days you will feel sad without knowing why. Like you lost something very precious but forgot what it was, or you miss someone you never met.''

The sun was slowly setting upon the horizon, leaving a dark shadow on all the furniture. The soothing heat the sun once had on his skin fled. His eyes wandered to the clock continuously ticking, never failing to break the sequence every 60 seconds. It went 1 minute closer to the next hour for it to then be closer to the next day for time to then doomed to repeat itself. Stuck in a loop, one of many things life was doomed to repeat. After all, not everyone gets an escape nor a happy ending. Some things are inevitable. It would be proven futile to change that no matter how hard you try, the end will be the same.

His thoughts wandered into various morbid scenarios. As the clock ticked away, giving a reminder that life continues no matter how much you are wrapped up and consumed by your own thoughts, so much you wouldn't dare to move a muscle.

Raindrops trickled down the gloomy window, creating a block, an isolation of all beyond the window. Calm, not being able to see anything else was nice, not being reminded that you are nothing compared to the scale of things. To not be overwhelmed by the vast amount of people.

Too concerned with his own thoughts, he failed to notice his senses once again drifting off to a land filled with instability and craziness. The feeling of fear that lived deep within him, one that he could never shake. A land of danger lurking around every corner. A land where there were constant voices screaming at him no matter what he did.

All his memories compiled together tortured him and caused him more pain. It was a land he couldn't escape.

So yet again, he fell into the trap of sleep. Everyone needed it to live, so who made it so hard.

Death doesn't seem so strange anymore, he thought of it more as a longer more peaceful sleep that he wouldn't leave. The more he thinks about it. It sounded quite peaceful, an escape. Escape, one he desperately needed no matter what it would be, he would take it. Anything, he just needed to get away from himself.

He just wanted out more than anything.

He knew, accepted his fate. Over time, it became ordinary to him what his future would hold. He had little hope in himself; He would die young. He would live a reasonably unsuccessful life. Drown his sorrows in alcohol of any kind and then death the cause of is not yet known to him, but that would become clear to him soon.

He cared little for his life if he walked down the street and a car suddenly hit him, he wouldn't care much. It would save him the job he always thought he would be thankful for it.

Hours Later

Through the hazy mist of sleep, he pulled himself off the white sheets towards the bathroom, needing to get rid of the mind consuming thoughts that blasted through his head at millions of miles. Grabbing his wallet on the way towards the bathroom, he put an anti-depressant pill that was intended to be used for something far different to what it currently was, underneath his credit card and smashed until it turned into a fine consistency.

It was amazing how much power and control such a small thing had. The snowy powder could give an escape, freedom from himself but at what cost, not being in control of himself? But that's what he wanted, right? He didn't have the power to be in control of himself; he was far too damaged, too broken for that. He didn't trust himself to be in command when the only thing he heard was incoherent screaming that he could barley piece together to be his self-hating thoughts.

He just needed to be relieved from this pressure. The pressure that society puts upon everyone at a far too early age that caused him to be fucked up too early. He was too young. He still had a life to live, yet he was trapped in his past no matter how far he went, he couldn't get away.

He needed this powder to act as an escape. He would let it take over his senses to give him a break. A break from the torment he didn't care about the downfall that was irrelevant. The only thing that proved to matter was getting the white powder inside his system. It amazed him just how much power it held over him.

His head stumbling upwards, everything appeared to be spinning as he felt around for the doorknob to exit the bathroom. Everything felt euphoric he knew this wouldn't last, it never did. The feeling of utter happiness, everything felt joy. It felt as though everything was there for a reason. Everything had its place in the world apart from him. He wasn't helping anyone; he had no purpose. He was just there, so undoubtedly no one could care if he wasn't.

He fumbled around with no idea where he was going, but that didn't matter, he was happy. A feeling that was so so rare to him he had to make the most out of it while it lasted because he knew soon enough he would be back to nothingness the longing of touch, love. A feeling that he has been void of for far too long.

He just craved the feeling of something, something that he had not felt in so long he forgot what it was: a distant memory of happiness.

He supposed it was quite sad that his only way of feeling something was from drugs and alcohol, but it was the only way he got, so he took it. He searched for the feeling it the drugs gave him in something else he didn't know how to find it either way; he looked for it. Maybe in food or a ''unbreakable love from a mother'' bullshit, he thought his mother proved that it could be broken and quickly.

He knew it would kill him one day, one way or another, but until it did, he still craved the feeling the drugs and endless amounts of alcohol gave him.

The drugs and alcohol gave him the power he didn't hold without it. It gave him confidence after being broken down into saddened thoughts. It seemed rather pleasant. I suppose that's all he was.

He went out most days high or intoxicated, craving the attention he was void of throughout the years he craved the rush of hooking up with utterly random strangers at all times of the day. He would wake up hours, possibly even days later, maybe in a bed. Maybe someone miles away from his flat on a random street. Or his personal favourite in a rosebush that caused him to have scratches down his back for days.

He thought about it. Maybe if he got the attention and undying love from his parents, he required, perhaps he wouldn't end up desiring it from random strangers at ungodly hours. Maybe he wouldn't be so fucked up residing in drugs and alcohol instead of actual therapy.

He might have half a chance of having a regular, healthy and happy life. But no, because of his history, he was tragically doomed to a life where his only happiness and will to live comes from drugs and alcohol.

Yes, the drugs and alcohol helped him an unreasonable amount of times. But at what cost, he felt a piece of his soul. A slither of his stability, lost to the darkness each time. As long as he kept on feeling the pure, unfiltered euphoria of it all. He didn't care how much it stole of him all he craved it too fill up the void that just took more and more alike a black hole.

He knew deep down somewhere it would never work. The thought he forced himself to think on a daily was that if he took enough, it would work, it would finally work, and he would feel complete, finally, the feeling he so desperately craved would be there and he could die peacefully knowing that. Deep down he figured it wouldn't, but he didn't dare think about that, he just kept going, drowning his sorrows in whatever would let him.

He needed help; he knew this and did nothing about it.

Stumbling down the stairs using the bannister to not trip too much, he made his way towards his car. He was in no were near fit to drive in his current state. He grabbed out, clutching onto anything that vaguely felt like a handle, barley being able to register his vision. As soon as he made his way into the car, he felt the far too familiar sense of wooziness. He felt light, almost like he could be floating. He felt free like nothing mattered. Then just as life seemed perfect, no stress in the world, the crushing feeling of darkness and the bone-splitting sense of reality came crashing down, the darkness fought and overtook; he passed out sprawled across the car seats.

The days turned into a blur, mixing together. If you asked him the date, he couldn't tell you the month nor the year because ultimately, it didn't concern him. He would much rather be getting shit-faced in a random bar far away than trouble himself in learning the time. What use would that be to him anyways?

There rarely was a day where he was sober. It was so, so undeniably easier to forget responsibilities with the poison that coated his throat than deal with his problems.

His friend's concerns were increasing each time they called. He insisted he was fine and didn't need help. When he was sober, he would analyze it, why he said this, he concluded he never liked changes he feared it far too much. He was supposedly 'dealing' with his current situation the best way he could he didn't want change nor being interrupted.

But everything in life has a breaking point, whether this is a specific temperature till it melts. Or an amount of stress everything breaks, eventually. It was just a matter of time till he cracks. Only so much he could handle till he reaches his breaking point.


	2. Intoxicated And Fabulous

TW- Substance Abuse, Smoking, Mental Issues, Sexual Harassment, Drugs

Fear is by far the strongest emotion ever. It makes the most rational of people act out and cause them to do the stupidest, most irrational things that they would never even consider doing if they were not driven by the overwhelming feeling of fear. It courses through your blood, consumes you, disables you to think anything apart from escape. Get out of where you may ask well that’s the question: where is it you go when you need to escape from yourself?

Where do you go when you're trapped in a prison inside your own mind touring yourself slowing destroying yourself? How do you escape when it’s your own mind blossoming, harvesting that fear and panic deep within you?

The eye aching light shone through the large windows that displayed the high-rise buildings; the daylight showed their genuine height, which was often hidden by the dusty clouds painting the sky. The sky shone a light blue, not a cloud in sight, which was rather unusual considering the city is covered in a thick layer of pollution and ash. 

George awoke by two men far below, arguing about god knows what. His hand reached up to rub his eyes as it had been days since he saw the daylight, and his eyes weren't prepared for the sudden shock of the bright light. George much preferred the night to the overbearing daytime. He didn't understand why it is so loved compared to nighttime.

Cursing at the sun, he got up and groggily reached for the packet of cigarettes he so dearly kept on his nightstand that were quickly added to his non-existent morning routine. Not wanting his apartment to smell of the fumes only because his landlord would be pissed off. He went out to the balcony, shuddering at the coolness that abrasively hit his skin. 

Grabbing the lighter that kept a home in his dressing gown pocket, he covered the cigarette from the gushes of wind and lit it. Taking his first frag of the cigarette, he relished in the familiar feeling of the burn in his throat that he often resided within. Out of his pocket, he pulled out his phone, dismissing all the missed calls and worried texts he had received from friends. He opened Spotify; he went to his liked songs and played them on shuffle. As he took his next drag, a familiar song started playing. He smiled upon remembering all the memories attached to the song.

Wishful Drinking - Tessa Violet 

''Oh, wishful drinkin'  
Tell myself that I'm not thinkin' 'bout  
How I could drown, drown, drown, drown  
Wishful drinkin',''

The memories came flooding in. That time he was on vacation with his friends, drinking and parting. That other time when it was summer, and he was laying outside at night, then this song came on. He smiled, remembering all the memories attached to this song. 

Until he also remembered that one time when shopping in the supermarket. Oliver repeatedly kept grabbing his ass even after he asked him to stop, making him beyond uncomfortable. Upon remembering that and Oliver, he reached out for his phone and paused the song, no longer feeling in the mood to listen to music.

He quickly took in the last few drags of his cigarette until it disappeared and crushed the remains into the fancy ashtray he bought off eBay when he was dangerously drunk at the time he thought it was hilarious. Swiftly returning into the warmth of his apartment, he made his way to his bathroom to start the other part of his unhealthy morning routine.

Crushing the pills in between his credit card, he brought it up to his nose and snorted a bit. The sudden drowsiness affected him, he grabbed onto the sink for support. After the initial shock, he continued in his day like usual. Now that he was thinking about it, he didn't remember the last time he made his way through a whole day without being intoxicated. He had to keep reminding himself that it was easier this way. After so long of telling yourself these things, you begin to believe yourself and struggle to believe differently.

He had no major goals for the day, just seeing where the drugs made him end up and sitting back and watching was rather interesting. The harsh cold climate hit him this was when he quite quickly became aware that he wasn't wearing much more than a t-shirt and a pair of jeans he didn't remember buying. He didn't care enough to grab a hoodie. He always felt as though the cooling air had a certain calming effect to it, even as he was currently freezing within it. 

Eventually, he made his way into a 7/11. Grabbing eye drops and a monster, none of which was essential. The sunlight began fading again, behind the hills. The day was creeping into the night once more. George was now stumbling down the streets aimlessly getting dirty looks from random pedestrians, which he failed to notice.

He somehow ended up in a random club that some part of his brain seemed to remember, flashing his I.D, making his way straight to the bar, unbothered by the continual strange glances. Plonking himself upon a spinning chair that was angled towards the bar's counter, a man came over to ask what he wanted to drink, barley making out what the man was asking.

''shots, grey goose, three please.'' 

Grabbing his wallet out of his jean pocket and putting ten dollars on the counter, hardly caring if that was anywhere near the amount needed, he grabbed the shots and headed towards the dance floor, prepared to get shit-faced.

Bumping against mostly everyone, he managed to squeeze through the growing crowds. Between the loud music blasting through his head and the shots he carried in his left hand, all his previous worries seemed to slip away. All his anxiety, all his fears didn't matter anymore he was there in the moment having fun, something he could only hope to achieve when he was intoxicated. Normally, he would never have the confidence to look at someone, afraid it would anger them.

Without the drugs, he was a lost, broken soul who ultimately just wanted love. The drugs completed him, filled in the gap, gave him confidence an escape. But in return, they were slowly killing him. Then he would just become another number. Another statistic, just another piece of data of those who died. Who deemed it easier to die than experience the full force of his mind that slowly tortured him mercilessly, just increasing the void of affection he craved more than life itself.

He was just one of many going to the club to escape their impending problems. The only difference was he this was more his life rather than one night.

Next Day

The light flowing in through the tall windows scattered through his room awoke George. He still curses himself for not buying a blindfold. After procrastinating for a couple of hours, he finally left his cocoon of bedsheets. Sitting up, grabbing his lighter and packet of cigarettes, heading towards the balcony. Ready for this day to become just another one, he wouldn't remember the next day, his life turning into a mindless blur. 

Heading towards his fridge, which was only occupied with vodka and whiskey grasping the half-empty bottle of vodka, he took a deep swig of the bottle hoping it would wash away his problems permanently. It never does. It only acts as a temporary distraction. Screwing his face from the revolting acidy taste that washed down his throat.

Now prepared for this shit-show of a day to start intoxicated and as fabulous as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading  
> Hope you enjoyed


	3. Ice Stirring

'Surviving is the hardest part, death gives you the peace you only dreamt upon.'

Tw- Anxiety, Substance Abuse, Smoking, Mental Issues

There has always been a sense of security being alone. You never allow people to hurt you. But after being alone for so long, you forget what it feels like to have a feeling of belonging, a perception of safety, a place to call home. When everything seems like it is falling apart, he needed someone to lean on, to help him when he needed it most. He craved something he never had in the first place. Any glimpse of attention left him begging, craving for more, wanting to feel needed like he was not this disposable thing that could be dumped instantaneously.

You drift away from the people closest to you; you end up alone, again. And the cycle repeats itself, from time to time once again, each time worse off than how you started. In the end, you're alone. After so long alone, you give up hope of ever finding that feeling of safety or comfort, so you stop looking for it.

Born alone to die alone, that thought plaguing his mind. Continually reminding himself that he didn’t deserve love, he was not good enough. He didn’t deem himself to a high enough standard to deserve happiness. Why would anyone love him when he was this broken, traumatised beyond fixing, he was far too gone, relying on something that would eventually kill him? Why would anyone love that?

He was not even sure he could even feel love anymore. It had been taken advantage of, too often, too quickly. He was not sure if he could bring himself to replicate that feeling, whatever it was again. Too afraid that the past would have a chance to repeat itself.

Rather too often, he would find himself staring blankly into space, void of much emotion he knew he should be feeling. All those who he loved betrayed him, stabbed him in the back. So what reason was there to love again when he just ended up hurt and alone, more damaged than the last. Just being passed around, person to person. Each time, the crack went deeper, crushing him even more, adding to the pile of hurtful memories fueling his demons.

The night was approaching; the sunlight dwindling. The city calming. The soothing darkness that surrounded him, the same darkness that often coaxed him out of his drug-ridden state. Into one filled to the brim with his inner demons that come out to taunt him endlessly. Further proving the point that he needed the drugs to live, to be happy. Without them, he was just hollow, a shell of the man he used to be.

He returned to his messy apartment, threw his keys on the floor somewhere. He could find them some other time, hoping to at least make it somewhat near his bed before passing out.

The white sheets swallowed him whole, giving him a false sense of security. His demons begging to come out to play as the drugs wared off. Leaving the hollow man that resided deep within him, that was much too often replaced by the drug-enhanced version of himself, one with no worries, the version of himself he aspired to be.

The night was often when the drugs would wear off. The bone-splitting reality comes crashing down, fully grasping what he had done in his drug-ridden state. The night was when he could think properly without being heavily intoxicated. It was where he broke down completely, his demons effectively poking at him, daring him to speak up. Knowing everything he did would just be used as material to fuel his never-calming mind, over-analyzing every move, every breath. He did not dare move a finger, just laying, cocooned in the sheets, his mind going crazy, forced to bare the thoughts that were forced upon him, breaking him down even more, reminding him that he was nothing, worse than everyone, everything else. 

Laying within the sheets, he was not quite sure how long he was laying there being toured by his mind. By the time he snapped out of it, the tears previously streaming down his face had dried up, and the sun had begun attacking his eyes. 

Unwanting to remember the horrors of the night, he headed towards the balcony to start off his day. 

He ran away from all his problems, not daring to face them without diluting them down, making it easier. The full force of his demons would more than likely do more damage than the drugs.

Letting the burning smoke consume him, travelling down to his angry lungs. The pain, trauma, worries faded away became a distant memory, no longer being important. The smoke and ash filling the void of affection that he sought. His mind finally at peace after the war. 

Down below he watched the city, the cars, taxis and the pedestrians hurrying along the street, in constant fear they would be late. They all had a purpose, somewhere they were wanted, they had their roles in life. Perhaps they were going to a business meeting or an important interview that would determine their future. He chuckled at the thought maybe in a distant life, he would be one of those people that worried whether they left the stove on at home when they rushed to get their weekly shopping done. The thought of him having what was considered a normal, happy life was amusing to him, seeing how far off he was to that life.

Puffing out the smoke from the last drag of his cigarette, he crushed it in the ashtray and went indoors to his studio apartment. Vaguely remembering him chucking his keys somewhere on the floor the night before in hope to make it into bed before passing out, he rummaged around, searching for the sound of a clank of metal.

Upon finding the cool touch of metal, he went to the closest bar regardless of just waking up. Expecting to get very judgemental gazes from others, but were they really ones to judge when they were also in a bar at eleven in the morning.

Using google maps to find where the bar was, despite living in the area for months now. Foggily remembering the inside of the distinctive tobacco smelling bar. Not planning on leaving the bar till much later, he sat in one of the comfy big armchairs with a glass of whisky in hand, slowly sipping on the smokey flavoured drink that coated his throat.

Receiving the much-needed peace from the quiet atmosphere, the tv playing some random sports game that served as a mere distraction. The gentle sound of ice sloshing and stirring about, the distant chatter, all radiating a calming effect, soothing the man.

Never wanting it to end, he continued getting refills. The bartender, checking up that he was okay, looking rather concerned for his health. He was sure through all the times drunk; he had built up resilience, unable to decide when he was past his breaking point, incapable to decipher whether one more drink would tip him over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading  
> Feedback is appreciated :)


	4. Brick Wall

TW- Non-consensual kissing, Substance abuse, Drugs, mental issues, Passing out, Hospitals

'Sometimes giving someone an extra chance is giving them another bullet because they missed the first time.'

The insatiable hunger, eating him alive. The need for more grating at his skin, more drugs, more alcohol, just more. It wasn't enough; none of it was. He needed more. Unrealising he was too close to the edge, passing his tipping point, he was unable to sense when he should stop when everything was screaming at him to continue, it wasn't enough; it didn't fill the void, maybe one more line or one more glass would finally fill the void. None of it would ever be enough. Disregarding his limits in the search for more, something to fill the void. Uncaring of what effect it would have over him.

The bar he dwelled in for the day was getting packed now that it was approaching nightfall. The business aspect of the city dying off. The city beginning to house the party-goers of the city, more accustomed to the nightlife. Alcohol serving to be more important than their health. The broken people of the city, who would party endlessly, looking for that same feeling George had wasted copious amounts of time seeking.

Typically, he knew his limits, never going a drink too many, realising it was a dangerous game between drinking and alcohol poisoning, consequently having to have his stomach pumped. But for some reason tonight, all his caution flew out the window, leaving stupidity to dominate, too weak to stop the dangerous game. 

Hustling around the bar like he had lived there for years, memorising every piece of furniture that settled in the room, cautious not to bump into it. Tray of shots in his hand, ready to share with randoms, recklessly pushing the edge between being drunk and being hospitalized. Tilting his head back, the vodka sloshing down his alcohol-induced stomach, chanting a drinking song along with his newly made friends, he made mere minutes ago after he bought them all a round of shots.

Tripping over his own feet in a rush back to the bartender. His face ended up hitting the concrete, icy floor, laughing about nothing special in particular. He felt a strong pair of arms lift him up, too weak to resist playing as putty in their arms. He felt his back being pushed up against rough bricks. His face being forced into a rough, sloppy kiss, he tried to mumble some form of a sentence to stop this. But alas, his body wasn't responding to his begs of resistance, unable to tell the man to stop.

Time blurred, stirring in and out of consciousness each time, hoping to wake up safe in his own bed, only to be disappointed upon realization this was just untrue. Still being forced to make out with a stranger down a random alleyway, unable to change his predicament, his efforts were being proved as futile and a childish longing, far from a true reality.

A lengthy amount of time later, he felt himself fall into another pair of arms, seemingly more comfortable, hearing chatter, shouting and distant fighting somewhere in the background. Continually, falling in and out of consciousness, unable to tell what was happening. Blurry, why was everything blurry, nothing made sense, why was the world spinning. It didn't normally do that, right?

Fuck, his hand made its way to his forehead, massaging in hope to disperse the pounding headache currently recking the man. Not daring to open his eyes, knowing the sunlight would terrorise him. He heard shuffling of what sounded like blankets around the room, also a repetitive beeping of what appeared to be a heart monitor. His eyes darted open, forgetting about the sunlight. Squinting, trying to take in his surroundings, he was in a hospital. Great, just what he needed, doctors poking at him, pretending like they give a shit about his life past his bank account.

That's not what surprised him the most, though. The two men seemingly asleep in the corner of his room in two armchairs is what shocked him the most. Having absolutely no clue who these men were, nor the memory of how he ended up here. Maybe he had a threesome and passed out and the men were concerned, maybe that's how he ended up here. The ideas of how he ended up in a hospital bed racked through his brain. Too caught up in his own scenarios to notice the men had awoken and were asking him questions, snapping back to reality.

''Should we go get the doctor he isn't responding?''  
A man with glasses asked another raven-haired man.  
''I don't know man, maybe give him another minute to wake up or something?''  
Snapping out of his trance-like state, George took a moment to understand their words and piece them together.

''Why am I here?'' After hearing the stranger speak, the other men brightened up.

''You passed out, and we took you here. You needed to get your stomach pumped because of how much alcohol you had consumed.''  
The man with glasses responded in a patronising voice.

He mumbled a string of curses under his breath. He was regularly good at noticing when he should stop when it was getting dangerous. Forgetting he still had no clue who these men were and why they helped him.

''Where did you find me.. you know, like last night.'' Stumbling over his words, he made an attempt to piece together the memories he had in his head.

''In an alleyway outside of... urm, I think it was Bemelmans Bar...  
Yeah. We found you pushed against a wall, seeming out of it, we helped you, then you passed out, then we brought you here.''  
Surprised by how considerate they were, any other person would have ignored his helplessness, too concerned with their own life. These men didn't know him, why were they helping him. He was a nobody, why would anyone help him. He didn't deem himself worthy of help. The only conclusion as to why these men were being nice was money. Dismissing the possibility they were simply nice people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed  
> Feedback is appreciated

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if something sounds weird or isn't correct  
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
